| Monday, November 20, 2000 |
 | A pleasant weekend, although my tolerance for costume parties is getting lower and lower. Beyond a certain age, the only real option is to come as somebody who just doesn't give a fuck. Abigail reckons that the party genes go into abeyance between about 24 and 44, at around about which point parties are such rare occasions that people overreact wildly at the very idea thereof. I can go with that.
Then, today, shopping in Brick Lane market. Really big markets tend to hammer home the breakneck consumption of the earth's resources. There is so much shit out there - more than could ever, in fact, be consumed. It is just produced to find itself ultimately displayed at a fraction of its marked-up price on a market stall, to an indifferent audience. Still, as humanity devoured the means of its own sustenance, the oceans rose and plague stalked the land, I got a really cool shirt, so that's OK.
Via Spitalfields to the West End, to see Memento. An interesting film rather than a great one, much funnier than I expected, but obviously all attention will be focused on the unusual treatment of time. It's surprisingly easy to follow after a few scenes - linearity is linearity, whichever way it runs.
And another David Bowie song over the end credits of a grim, noirish, fractured thriller. Seven, Lost Highway, Memento - this is getting ridiculous.
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